The moment I reach behind to my back and unclasp my clearance sale bra is the most satisfying part of my day. Before I even take my shirt off, I pinch the two hooks together and sigh in ecstasy as I am released from the suffocating combination of fabric and underwire. Every morning I throw on my over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder (as my mother called it that historical day we purchased my first training bra), and every morning I am at war with myself as to why exactly I wear one.
In the late 19th century, an American socialite named Mary Phelps Jacob decided she was fed up with the horror that is the corset. Jacob and her maid worked together to sew two silk handkerchiefs using ribbon and some sort of cord (something I could consider wearing). Thus was born the brassiere. A part of me is forever grateful to these forward-thinking women for protecting my ribcage from the metal bear hug only a corset can give. The other part of me wonders what may have happened if she had suggested we toss the constriction all together. If you are one of the women who enjoy wearing a bra then I commend you. But for those of us who loath them and still strap one on every day, why?
1. The fear of sagging.
Growing up I was always the first to lose the undergarment at a sleep over. My girlfriends would look at me with disgust and warn, "You're going to have saggy boobs when you're, like, older." Not caring, I proceeded to tuck the enemy under my pillow as the other girls settled into their caged sleep. Soon enough, puberty hit. One day I woke up with a C cup (unsupported all night long) and the fear of sagging was inches away from becoming a phobia. If only I had listened to the wisdom bestowed on me at those slumber parties! There was only one thing to do: take the pencil test.
One of my mosquito-bitten friends assured me that as long as I passed the pencil test, I had nothing to worry about. According to her (and the rest of the girl community) all one has to do is place a pencil at, what we 21st century gals like the call, the "under-boob." If the pencil falls to the floor: perk. If it is held in place by the fat and tissue that will one day feed your newborn baby: droop. Well (drum roll please) I passed with flying colors on the right side. It looked a bit downhill for a moment but, standing up straighter, I passed on my left boob as well. I felt a sense of victory and new found confidence as I gazed at the only pencil to ever touch my breasts laying on the floor.
Apparently wearing a bra 24 hours of the day does not determine the shape, size, or lift of one's breasts. So if that was the issue, then problem solved, right? Wrong. After passing the pencil test I proceeded to put my bra back on before leaving the house (which is the only time I wear one). And, with the exception of a handful of times I run to pick up Chinese take-out, I have worn one each and every day since. The majority of women also continue to lock their puppies into a crate, perky or not.
2. The falsification of the girls.
Perhaps we are just a bunch of liars. The push up bra fools others into thinking cleavage is something found in nature. The adhesive bra gives the illusion that our breasts somehow defy gravity. Even the minimizer bra is technically concealing the whole truth. And the majority of women have lived the dirty little (or rather big) secret that is the padded bra.
When I was 17, I bought myself a bra that was advertised to add two cup sizes. By this point I had been a C cup for years. That night I walked out of my bedroom with my brand new DD knockers beneath a grey turtle neck. Before I could make it out the door my mother stopped me and, through stifled laughter, said, "Where did you get those from?" I was floored. Was it that obvious? She went on to tell me that no boy is going to care about the size or shape of my breasts, that once the bra is off they are not going to be DDs anyway. In that moment, I was mostly disturbed by my mother talking to me about boys seeing me naked. Later, I realized how right she was.
Whether it is the surprising flick of a finger, or the awkward fumbling with the clasp, once unclipped, that pricy piece of silk, wire, and cushion is most likely thrown to the floor. In that moment only the naked truth is left. If we honor our bodies as they are, why must we hide behind the bra? If we do not honor our bodies as they are, is a bra really going to fix that?
3. Good ol' fashion modesty.
Ding! Ding! Ding! We have a winner! Well, at least in my case we do. My best guess as to why we mindlessly stuff our twins into their car seat every single day is because society tells us it is inappropriate not to. Unfortunately, going braless is quite the show. With every unsupported bounce and every possible slip of side boob my anxiety level would shoot through the roof (unless the perk of my bare nipples has already accomplished this). Men gawk. Women judge. We are uncomfortable with the bra and we are uncomfortable without it.
Maybe one day I will decide once and for all that my boobage is to be free from the confines of a bra. Tomorrow, I will slip my arms through straps that will most likely leave red marks on my shoulders. Simultaneously, a fearless woman will toss her shirt on over her free breasts without giving it a second thought. That woman is a role model who stands for beautifying imperfections and her courage is honorable. To her I am incredibly grateful and profoundly envious.
